He stopped me today,
A nocturnal hunter,
After exiting the crevasse
I had so eagerly
Taken refuge in only months before.
He cocked his head,
Ears twitching,
Nose searching the wind.

"You are of my kind." said he.
"And yet you are not.
I've never met one such as you.
You have fangs,
But they are hidden.
Your rage is tempered,
Yet your heart is still that of a wolf."
His eyes flashed in the dawn's
Fleeting moonlight.
"Who are you?"

For a moment,
A solemn shift took me
As I searched for the answer
To his query.

"I am The Silvertongue.
He who weaves legends,
Yet burns all he touches.
My paws are scarred,
My maw ******,
But what I do, I do for the rest.
I have sold my soul,
But heart and mind
Remain my own.
I have lived a life soaked with blood Of both friend and foe.
My scars have many sources,
I may answer indirectly,
But I never lie.
I have bred and buried shadows,
And I have both welcomed
And shunned the sunshine."

His tongue flashed across
His muzzle,
His teeth bared in
A feral grin.

Spoke the canine
"I envy your spirit
My friend.
You've tread a life
Lonely
But entrapped by
Millions of souls.
But know this.
You keep your own,
You know your spirit.
Your scars are the one thing
That they cannot take from you."